Blinding Headaches
by BibliophileBookworm
Summary: short little ficlit. Headaches are a fickle thing, especially some headaches that can only be cured by guys with the name Patrick Verona. Kat Stratford has one of these fickle headaches, but she doesn't want to be anywhere near a Patrick Verona. Too bad.


I walked out of my English classroom with a blaring headache. Mandela was chatting about something she was going to do this weekend, but I didn't hear anything. I was too focused on the pounding in my head. It felt like my head was about to burst.

"Are you okay, Kat?" I barely hear Mandela ask, though I do notice concern in her voice. She is a true friend, I guess.

"I just got the worst headache." I grab my forehead, pressing it down and hoping the pain will go away. It doesn't of course. Maybe I have some ibuprofen in my locker, I used to get headaches all the time when I was younger but I stopped having them so frequently ever since freshman year.

"Maybe you should go to the nurse's office if it's that bad. I've never had a headache so bad." Mandela says, shocked. I do have a high pain tolerance, but headaches always get the best of me. We walk towards my locker, but it's too far away from my next class. I'm going to be late. Jujst another joy of headaches, they cause way too many problems. And did someone turn on the air conditioning? It feels like I'm in Antarctica.

"Mandela, you should go to class. I'll be fine, I have some ibuprofen in my locker." I say, I don't want both of us late.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Don't worry." I wave her off, and hope she can dash to class.

I'm half way to my locker when the bell rings. I'm definitely going to be more than late; the teacher will probably think I'm skipping. The next class I have is math, and the teacher is very strict. I don't even know why they have him here, he barely teaches us anything. He's too busy lecturing about the evils of teenage hood, and the evils of what we are doing.

I reach my locker, and open it up, but there is no ibuprofen. I can't believe this, this is not happening.

"Something wrong?" Patrick low, velvety voice rings out, and makes me want to cut my wrists. I cannot deal with him and this horrendous headache.

"Can you just please go away? I can't handle you right now." I tell him truthfully, but he just silently chuckles. I can hear it. I slam my locker shut, and he's there leaning up against my neighbor's locker with that lazy smile of his. That smile I find incredibly hot.

"C'mon, something's up. You're skipping today? What for?"

"I'm not skipping, I'm just going to be extremely late." I grab my head again, and walk past him in search of a bubbler. He trails on besides me.

"Sure, sure. But really, something's wrong, what is it? Do you have a major headache or what?" He asks as he catches up to my speed. There is no freaking bubbler around this school. How can there be no freaking bubbler?

"I wouldn't be holding my forehead if it wasn't, and today is my lucky day since I forgot to put ibuprofen in my locker." I storm off, still in search for a bubbler.

"So that's why. I see, hold still," He grabs my arm, and yanks me out of my walk. His hand goes up to my forehead. I feel a shock from his touch, I don't want to but I do. I don't want him to move either, the headache is backing away it seems. It didn't take water or medicine, only his touch.

"You have a fever, a mighty bad one at that." He drops his backpack on the floor and reaches into the depths. He pulls out a light blue sweater and some Tylenol. He stands up again, handing me the sweater and opening the Tylenol bottle to give me two large pills.

"Put my sweater on, you must be freezing." I didn't want to admit it, but I was freezing. "And here's two Tylenol. That should reduce your fever and headache."

I take the pills and the sweater, but do it cautiously. What is he doing, does he actually _care _about me? "Why are you doing this?"

He gives me that lazy smile, "You're no fun when you're not at the top of your game. "

I nod. I swallow the pills, and even though impossible, relief flushes through my body.

"Don't forget the sweater. Give it back to me tomorrow, or not. If you don't though, I'll truly know you're obsessed with me."

"I'm not obsessed, and you'll see this sweater tomorrow, morning even. Who's obsessed now?"

He laughs. He seems happy, there's something in his dark eyes that tells me he loves this game that we have between each other. I love just as much; it's what makes this hell hole worth going back.

I take off my flannel shirt that I was wearing over my shirt and slip into the sweater he gave me; through this entire thing he's just watching me. Not saying anything, but it's comfortable. There's no awkwardness. The sweater's a little baggy on me, and too long in the sleeves, I wrap the sleeves over my flannel shirt. The combination doesn't look to bad, and without him noticing I'm sniffing his sweater. It smells exactly like Patrick, which makes me want to keep it forever. But of course I won't.

I'm not obsessed.

"Feel better." Patrick says as he walks away. He does so almost hesitantly.

"Thanks." I call out. I look down at my feet and there's a small slip of paper. I pick it up, and it's his name and number. Below it, it says in scribble handwriting, "if you feel worse, call me."

I pick it up and shove into my pocket, I won't be calling him in the near future, but I don't want to litter.

Once I'm in math, I'm getting lectured on why it's bad to be fifteen minutes late to class. I can't believe it was only fifteen minutes. It felt like at least an hour to me. I pass a note to Mandela, asking her what I missed but I can't concentrate on her reply because I keep thinking about that piece of paper burning in my pocket.

Maybe the near future is closer than what I thought.


End file.
